


you gotta be pragmatic about this

by sleepypercy, Trojie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, POV John Winchester, Pre-Series, Sibling Incest, not quite prostitution, offscreen Dean/OMCs, rough sex implied, trading sex for information
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 20:43:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6769210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepypercy/pseuds/sleepypercy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a mission. He'll use whatever tools he's got to hand to get it done. </p><p>He never intended his sons to be part of his arsenal, but he's not above letting it happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you gotta be pragmatic about this

**Author's Note:**

> We wrote this accidentally in the comments to [Break Your Skin](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5522339). 
> 
> Whoops?

It starts like this: John eyes Dean getting eyed by others, and realises that has use.

So, the next time there's a job with a victim's daughter who needs to be out of the house, Dean gets given the car keys and twenty bucks. Next time little Sam's hungry but the budget's tight, Dean's the one who places the order with the waitress.

Next time they need information and the bartender doesn't seem that interested in the bachelorette party that's doing shots off his pool table, it's Dean that has to pull out his fake ID and pull out that smile.

John doesn't realise, then, that it's gonna go as far as it ends up going. John just counts his blessings and thanks whoever it is that watches over hunters for Dean's winning personality, but eventually John comes back from a job and Sam's in the car, glaring daggers at him, refusing to even speak to him, and Dean's nowhere to be seen.

'Where's your brother?' John asks, blood drying tacky on his jeans and too tired for Sam's teenage shit right now.

And Sam just jerks his thumb down the alleyway the Impala's parked beside. There's movement next to the dumpster at one end.

John doesn't make the connection, not at first.

When Dean comes out, he's wiping his mouth, and his face is grim underneath that smile.

'Did you kill it, Dad?' is his first question.

'Yeah, son,' says John, through a too-dry throat.

Dean nods, and slides into his seat. 'Good.'

In the rearview, as they pull away, Sam is still glaring at John. John drives them through the night, wanting to put miles between them and that town, and that job, and that necessity. But two days later there's another hard-case barman who won't play ball, who doesn't respond even to cash, and Dean pulls out his fake ID and smiles.

'It's okay, Dad,' he says. 'I got this one. We need the intel, right? Don't have time to be precious about it.'

They gank that monster too. And the next one.

It's tactics.

***

It doesn't stop. John doesn't stop it.

John still tries to tell himself it's his son's sweet-talking that gets them intel. But he now he's seen it, he knows it's not Dean's charm, it's _Dean_ , Dean turning men who never thought they'd give up tits and soft girl parts until they saw Dean's sweet mouth and butterfly eyelashes. And maybe they hate themselves at first when they let Dean talk them into the back alley, who knows, but when he's blinking up at them with half-lidded green eyes and come-smeared lips, he's an instant addiction, and they're willing to give up any number of secrets and money and info just to get that beautiful boy back on his knees for them again. Or at least, that's what the evidence suggests, because Dean? When it comes to getting information from a certain kind of civilian, Dean has a 100% hit rate. 

John hates that he knows that, hates that he uses it, hates that Dean lets him, but what can he do? They _need_ to know things, or people will die. Part of the reason John never goes back to the same town twice is that he wants Dean to put the things he does for the job in the rearview mirror - but it doesn't stop him letting it happen if it looks like it'll get them what they want.

Half of him is glad Dean doesn't make a big deal about it (boy's got his head screwed on right. He knows the job comes first), but half of him worries that Dean doesn't fight it more. John does his best, he does, to find other ways. And he does his best to treat Dean no different, because God, he doesn't want his son to feel shame over this on top of everything else.

Sam's gaze makes the back of John's neck prickle when they leave town though. His youngest doesn't have the same understanding that Dean has. His priorities are screwed somehow, and John doesn't know where he went wrong, except that he knows damn well Sam's tough and competent and armed, but he doesn't know that Sam's on his side any more, not really.

There's more than one reason John doesn't let Sam out of the car into firefights.

***

John made the mistake of trying to pit Dean against Sam once. Just once. Because the moment he threatened to leave Sam behind, separate him from his brother for a while, drop him off at Pastor Jim's or Bobby's for an unspecified stretch, Dean flew into hot rage so fast that John never made that mistake again. Because Dean is his good little soldier, his sure and steady rock, his unquestioning, willing weapon. But Dean belongs to Sam in a way that John can never touch, and he staunchly refuses to give form to the nameless fear about his sons that nests just below his skin, makes him break out in goosebumps every time Dean curls himself around Sam in the backseat.

He gives Dean the Impala, and doesn't know if it's a good idea or not. He waits, and makes it a birthday gift, so that there's a reason for it, so that it doesn't look like ... like payment, y'know? And Dean's smile is so pure, so genuine, all day that day, that John's heart eases and it's about the happiest he's seen either, both, of his sons in years, because Sam is happy because Dean's happy, and god knows it's hard to please Sam.

Having them in a different vehicle stops that cold sweat trickling down the back of John's neck after hunts, too.

But sometimes they don't catch up with him as fast as he'd expect, either, and just like he didn't say anything after Dean walked back out of alleyways, John doesn't say anything when they pull up at motels half an hour after he does. Dean won't make eye contact, practically begs him not to say anything, and that's part of why. But Sam's face is an open book, daring John to put a name to it. _Fight me,_ is Sam's attitude all over. _Fight me over Dean. Fight me_ for _Dean._

Something has to give soon.

It implodes, but not in the way John expects.

He comes back from a quick salt and burn case, boys left behind because Sam had turned murderous at the suggestion that he miss mid-year finals. Dean had stayed, too, because John had been too tired to keep fighting Sam, and he could tell by their twitchy anxiety that they could use a few days without him.

Two days later, however, he comes back and finds his boys worse than when he'd left. Dean looking haggard and acting reckless, like he thinks he might lose Sam, which is ridiculous because Sam's got an even tighter hold on Dean. John doesn't know what's changed, but clearly something has. They cling to each other or they fight like he's never seen before, sparring practice turning into something vicious.

Bruises litter their skin. John almost says something, tells them to stop before they maim each other, but something makes him stop and look with a hunter's eye, not a father's. Sam's got a black eye, sure, but his mouth is a mess of burst capillaries, there's a starburst of purple-yellow on the soft between-tendon space of his throat. Dean strips his shirt off before bed one night and John catches sight of cat-scratch fingernail marks down his shoulders.

That ain't fighting. 

Sam watches John watch Dean. John doesn't say anything. 

It starts escalating into his boys taking ridiculous chances, flaunting their nameless indiscretion so blatantly that it almost forces John to acknowledge it. Has him waiting at the pump, gas tank long since filled and boys trudged off to the side of the building, key borrowed from the tired cashier inside. He'd insisted that they take one vehicle, needing help navigating through the off-road terrain and unwilling to risk the Impala's low ride through brush, but he's starting to regret it now.

When they finally slide into the side of the truck cab, John's gone through the entire Side One of the Eagles self-titled album, eyes closed and head tilted back when Sam shuts the door harder than necessary, making John jump and whirl around to face his boys.

There's a salt-sheened flush spread across Sam's cheeks and a smug, dopamine smile that complements Dean's disheveled hair and bruised mouth. God, as if John needed another reason not to look at his eldest son's mouth.

He doesn't want to say anything, just wants to get to the motel, hand off a set of keys to his boys and pull off his boots in his own adjoining room while ignoring whatever bumps and knocks he hears against the wall during the night. But Sam can never pass up an opportunity to rub John's face in this, and he scoots in last, pushing Dean in the middle as he closes the door.

"Sorry, Dad," he says, sounding anything but. Dean stiffens, just as worried but not making a move to stop whatever Sam's compelled to say. "Dean wasn't feeling too good. Must've caught something in that last town, he was gagging the whole time in there."

John grunts in acknowledgement as he throws the car into drive and speeds down the highway towards their motel rooms, promising himself never to drive with both his sons in the same car again.

***

John sleeps well. Side effect of overwork, too much driving, too much bourbon. It's been one of the few things he's been able to count on, the last few (ten, fifteen) years. Means that when he wakes up at three am, barely two hours after getting in from a rawhead hunt that woulda taken a lot longer if Dean hadn't found a talkative barman, it's with a start, and a hand automatically on his gun, under his pillow.

The thudding noise that woke him sounds again, and again, and John sighs heavily and rolls over. He knows that late-night soundtrack. It's a sordid side effect of living out of fleabag motels, hearing other people having sex. He's used to it. Shouldn't even be waking up for it - he's sure he's probably slept through more cheap fucking than most people have had hot dinners. He rolls over, lets go of his gun, and tries to get comfortable again.

The sound of next-door's bedstead against the wall doesn't let up, though, and other noises start to trickle through. Half-asleep still, he vaguely hopes his boys aren't hearing this. 

In their room. 

Next door.

John sits bolt upright. His hand's back under the pillow in a flash, cold steel grounding him.

_uunh, yeah, fuck, Sammy, please -_

_That's it, Dean, you gonna take it? Take my fucking cock, hard as I wanna give it to you? Cos you don't ever fuckin' say no to an order, do you?_

Dean growls, John hears it even through drywall and wallpaper and cheap bricks and mortar.

 _Stop being such a princess, Samantha. You wanna fuck, let's fuck, you wanna fight - oh, god, yeah, like that, like_ that _\- then c'mon._

John's fingers tremble on his gun. He doesn't even know what he'd do with it if he used it. He doesn't know where the wrong is, there's so much of it. And ... and he isn't even sure he doesn't deserve the first bullet himself, for raising them this twisted.

He lies back down and jams the pillow over his head.

It doesn't stop him hearing Dean come, broken and groaning.

It doesn't stop him hearing Sam say, in triumphant tones that bleed through the wall, _yeah, Dean. Isn't that better than being on your goddamn knees?_


End file.
